


his name still is spoken

by boom_slap



Category: La casa de papel | Money Heist (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Blood and Injury, Canonical Character Death, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, M/M, Minor Violence, Prompt Fill
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-25
Updated: 2020-05-25
Packaged: 2021-03-03 04:20:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,100
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24368755
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/boom_slap/pseuds/boom_slap
Summary: Tumblr prompt: "Heartbroken Sergio after Andrés' death actually visits Martin to tell him the news and they mourn him together. They talk about Andrés, hash out their issues with the other and get drunk."
Relationships: Berlin | Andrés de Fonollosa/Palermo | Martín Berrote, Palermo | Martín Berrote & Professor | Sergio Marquina
Comments: 14
Kudos: 78





	his name still is spoken

**Author's Note:**

> Shoutout to Rainbowcat, a certified Sergio Marquina Expert, for beta-reading this angsty trainwreck.
> 
> And of course, I twisted the prompt a little bit, I hope it's okay tho!

Sergio was going crazy. Immediately after entering the international waters, he’d explained the rules of staying under the radar and handed out folders, feeling confident in his element. That sentiment disappeared in a heartbeat as soon as the gang began celebrating their escape again; Sergio was not in the mood.

He locked himself in his cabin, nauseous not because of sea sickness, but due to the emotions tearing up at his insides. Losing Oslo and Moscú was making him feel guilty enough, even though both Helsinki and Denver seemed to have forgiven him. Losing Andrés… was an entirely different thing that Sergio found himself unable to describe.

The team only knew him as Berlín, as their ruthless leader. They were impressed by his sacrifice, Nairobi was clearly bothered that she couldn’t force him to change his mind, she and Helsinki were both very compassionate seeing Sergio’s tears, but none of them knew Andrés, none of them knew how _caring_ he could be, how he took interest in Sergio and _decided_ to be his brother when he’d first found him, how since the deaths of his parents and before meeting Raquel, Andrés was the one and only person that Sergio loved, the only person who mattered to him, who he cared for.

And he had thrown his life away for Sergio’s plan.

Sergio felt like an animal in a cage, pacing the small cabin, lying down only to get back up, unable to cope in any way because there was no way to let the feelings out, because he was _alone, alone, alone_ and there was no way to work through the pain. His own emotions crashed against the walls only to come back stronger, maddening. He needed for them to take form. He needed a catalyst, someone to share the hurt with, someone who would take his guilt and _do something with it_ , swallow it or crush it or tear Sergio to pieces with it.

Sergio thought about just how much he hated emotions so compromising; that’s how he remembered.

There was someone.

He got off the boat at their first stop, in Morocco. He needed to break his own rules and go to Italy.

  
  


Palermo greeted him with harsh wind and waves of rain drenching his coat. _Fitting_ , he thought, his steps quick as he approached his destination.

Martín’s flat was nowhere near as luxurious as any of Andrés’ hideouts, but Sergio was almost sure he would find him there. He had to deal with the man for long enough to know that the place was his haven, something he loved dearly.

He found himself nervous as he knocked at the door, even though was doing this to himself consciously, looking to be hurt, to spill the poison that was already sitting in him.

He had to knock a few times before he finally heard the crash of breaking glass and a loud curse. The door swung open.

The last time they’ve seen each other, Martín was smartly dressed, coiffed and clean-shaven. Whatever creature stared at Sergio, it was the polar opposite of that image. Not even a person, no, but some pale thing dressed in dirty sweatpants and a stretched-out t-shirt, with unwashed hair long enough to be falling into red-rimmed eyes. Sergio noted all of that, but his attention was quickly caught by the hand that was holding the door open - the nails were broken and covered in dried blood. They looked the way Sergio felt.

“ _Hijo de puta_ ,” Martín’s voice snapped him out of shock, although it barely sounded like him. It barely sounded like anything, it was hoarse and yet way too high-pitched for what Sergio remembered. He looked him in the eyes and saw wonder instead of the expected anger. Martín grinned at him, backing away and into the flat, his steps wobbly, the smile more like a twisted grimace.

Sergio walked in, closing the door behind him and _God_ , the _stench_ \- sweat mixed with the sharp odour of ethyl alcohol and a kind of bitterness that could only mean vomit.

The state of the apartment was indescribable. Sergio noticed something that must’ve been a small tv once, smashed to pieces. He guessed that Martín must've watched the news. 

“What was the trick?” Martín asked, making some room on the kitchen table by throwing newspapers, empty bottles and a full ashtray to the floor. He motioned for Sergio to sit down and he did, fixing his glasses even though there was no need to.

He watched carefully as Martín took the place across from him. He forced himself not to wince when the man spoke again and the stench of alcohol on his breath reached Sergio’s nostrils.

“Where is he anyway? What was he, _scared_ to come here?” Martín laughed, the sound dry and humorless. “How did you do it?”

“What,” Sergio said slowly, “are you talking about?”

“You’re here to tell me the two of you have pulled a ruse, right? You’ve fooled everyone? You had me fooled for sure,” he chuckled. “I was a _mess_ , but since you’re here- you-... where is he, Sergio?”

Martín stared into his face and then, slowly, his grin disappeared and he slumped back in his chair.

“No,” his voice was small.

Sergio looked away.

“There was no trick. Andrés _is_ dead,” he said and his breath hitched at the last word.

For a few seconds, the only thing he could hear was the wind howling outside and Martín’s shuddering breaths.

Then, there was a hand grabbing at his hair and _pulling_ , crashing Sergio’s face against the table, making the bones in his nose crack with a disgusting sound, his glasses digging into his face, threatening to break under the pressure.

Sergio hissed as Martín pulled again, making him turn his head to the side as he leaned in. Sergio choked and coughed as some of the blood from his nose dripped down his throat.

He made no move to fight, though. At least the pain was tangible.

“You’ve taken him away from me, you made him _leave me_ and now you come here and you’re telling me _you didn’t save him_?” Martín growled right into his face. He let him go, then, stepped away and as Sergio straightened up, wiping at his nose, he saw Martín bring his hands to his face, looking completely lost, his eyes wide and bloodshot. 

“You didn’t save him,” he whined, disbelieving. “You’ve said our plan was suicidal but you let him die over _yours_! YOU LET HIM DIE! It’s you, it’s you who should’ve-... you don’t deserve to _live_ , you piece of shit, you _used_ him-... You stayed out of it, you fucking coward, you sent him in there and now he’s gone, he’s _gone_! _”_

Martín fell to his knees, pulling at his hair, _howling_.

Sergio wanted him to be a personification of his own guilt, a catalyst for his own feelings. What he was getting instead was a wave of grief so overwhelming it _mixed_ with his own, like the tears running down his face mixed with blood.

He got up, approached Martín, acting on instinct, not wanting but needing to comfort him, to make him stop because _this_ was simply too much. As he knelt down and touched his arm, Martín flinched away, though, throwing Sergio a wild look.

“ _Get out_ ,” he spat, but Sergio didn’t. He tried to grab Martín’s wrists to stop him from hurting himself, but he pulled away, grabbed an empty bottle and tried to hit Sergio with it. He dodged and Martín threw the bottle at him, but he missed and it crashed against the floor.

“For fuck’s sake,” Sergio groaned. Luckily, he was taller and stronger than Martín, so he used that advantage to wrap his arms tightly around him and pull him to his feet.

“Let me go, _let me go_ , you worthless, useless-...” Martín babbled, choking on tears. Sergio dragged him to the adjacent room and threw him unceremoniously onto the bed.

Martín tried to surge forward and Sergio had to sit on him to keep him in place. They struggled against each other, Martín spitting out curses and trying to punch and scratch.

Sergio has had enough. He unbuckled his belt and, after a vicious fight, managed to tie Martín’s wrists to the frame of the bed.

He moved away, leaving Martín kicking and screaming, and he sat down with his back against the wall.

For what felt like forever, he listened to the curses, feeling hazy, staring off into space with tears still dripping down onto his knees. His own pain faded away somehow, replaced by a surprising, suffocating wave of pity towards what once was his brother’s best friend and what was now reduced to a few sharp pieces scattered across the bed, wailing like an animal.

At some point, Martín couldn’t struggle anymore; he shook with wet sobs and Sergio left the room. He needed to do something practical, something methodic and useful, so he started cleaning the apartment, wincing in disgust every now and then.

The state of Martín’s fingernails was explained when he discovered bloodied scratches on the wooden floors.

It was around 2 am when he finally decided that the flat was more or less clean. Martín was quiet as Sergio walked into his room, his chest heaving with shuddering breaths.

Sergio sat down on the bed next to him, placing a glass of water on the nightstand.

“Martín?”

The other man turned his head to look at him. He wasn’t crying anymore, but Sergio knew very well that it wasn’t for the lack of trying.

“How could you?” he rasped, his voice almost inaudible.

Sergio felt his lips tremble.

“I wasn’t-... He wouldn’t listen to me.”

“I’m not talking about that.”

Martín was staring at him, his eyes shining in the dark. He must’ve sobered up at least a little bit.

“What are you talking about, then?” An almost civil conversation if you ignored the fact that Sergio’s nose was swollen and Martín was still tied to the bed.

“He left me. What have I ever done to you? You took him away and I haven’t seen him in two years and now-... I’ll never see him again. I _loved_ him, don’t you understand that?”

Sergio looked down at his hands, shrugging slightly.

“I didn’t _take him away_ from you, Martín. In the end, it was his decision.”

They were silent for a very long moment.

“He told me he loved me.”

Sergio’s head snapped up at that, his eyes widening. Martín gave him a smile that was suddenly gentle, void of hate or anger.

“He said he loved me. He kissed me. He said-... He couldn’t give me more, but it was enough, it was enough before, too, I never-... I never asked for more, did I?”

He was silent and Martín sniffled, shaking his head.

“I loved him so much, you have no idea, I would’ve pulled him out by his hair and if I couldn’t… I would’ve died at his side, gladly. I loved him so much.”

Sergio dared to put a hand on his shoulder. Martín didn’t flinch away this time, instead, he looked up at his tied wrists.

“Please?” he asked quietly and Sergio’s heart was in pieces, so he obeyed.

Once his hands were free, Martín sat up, massaging the angry red marks burnt in his skin by the leather belt he’d been struggling against for so long.

A moment later, he reached for him.

“Please?” he asked again and Sergio fell forward, wrapping him up in a hug, his own eyes filling with tears once again as he felt just how exhausted the other man was.

“You know,” Martín said, his face hidden in the crook of Sergio’s neck. “I knew that if someone was to take him, it would be you. The wives… they would come and go, but you, I could never compete against.”

The guilt Sergio felt wasn’t what he had expected, because somehow, the reason behind it shifted from Andrés’ death to causing Martín such pain. It stretched out and twisted into other emotions: pity, compassion and finally, _affection_ towards Martín who, after all, was the closest thing to a friend Sergio had at the moment.

“I want Andrés back,” Martín said, childlike and yet hopeless, and Sergio held on tighter, thinking: _me too, me too, me too_.

“Come if you ever need me,” Martín said in the late morning as he walked Sergio to the door.

He nodded.

He did come, almost three years later, and Martín looked somewhat better.


End file.
